Anathema
by Drakanyst
Summary: Dean and Sam are having difficulty adjusting to a world run by demons. Humanity have become slaves, while angels fight for their lives in a brutal circuit that is slowly wiping them out. Based upon Astroize's kickboxing AU.
1. Prologue

He didn't notice the sulfur anymore. It was as much of a part of the scenery as was the dirt and sweat, the suffocating holy oil that surrounded them. Meaty thuds and the dull packing of flesh and bone compacting created their own vaudeville rhythm in tandem to the crowd's yells. There wasn't enough time for cohesive thought, as Balthazar's vessel reacted out of sheer instinct. Later he might reflect that it was a pity, the animals they have been reduced to. As it were, the sprightly little shit of an angel that he was currently locked into a match with had him retreating from a flurry of blows. One after another they came; a jab-jab cross uppercut combination that would have been impressive had it not become predictable. He just had to hold out a little longer. Three years on the circuit had taught him that. The angels that came into the ring with garrison tactics alone burned out fast- both metaphorically and literally in certain cases.

They were out for blood, the demons. Of course, they didn't care _whose_ blood, though the blonde angel would like to think he'd gained a sort of reputation in this pit. He didn't fight fair, and he didn't fight remotely clean. To punctuate this point, a parry that took his enemy off guard smoothly morphed into an elbow to the philtrum. Blood sprayed the ring, flecks adorning his skin in an unsophisticated scheme. He wasted no time, taking his stunned opponent by the shoulder and forearm. With one concentrated effort, Gazardiel was bodily thrown across the ring. Balthazar didn't even realize he'd moved, glancing down at his brother contritely. The angel spluttered, mucus mixing with the blood streaming from his nose.

"B.. Baltha…. Don't," came the winded plea. Instead of offering a response, he knelt beside Gazardiel, forcing him back to the ground with one knee to the stomach. Both hands reached for the smaller angel's face, twisting counter-clockwise viciously. A cry split the air. While being excruciating, it wasn't fatal to an angel, even without his grace. A hand gripped his forearm, Gazardiel's legs bucking up to gain momentum. As soon as the angel's chest moved up, Balthazar took him by the neck. He pushed with all his might, taking care to withdraw his hand as soon as they had crossed the line of holy oil.

That scream would give him nightmares for days.

"I'm sorry, brother," he muttered bitterly in Enochian. Balthazar screwed his eyes shut, yet no amount of self-censorship would remove that image from his eyes in the coming week. The crowd roared its approval, oblivious to the exchange.


	2. Chapter 1 Keep Your Eyes Forward, Child

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!"

It echoed down the halls. Balthazar had to crane his neck in order to get a glance in the crowded hall. That was definitely Sam Winchester's voice; he'd recognize that bellowing anywhere. He wasn't given much a look before his sponsor was ushering him towards the angels' compound, prattling on and on about the recent match and what this would do to their earnings. He wasn't a bright one, the demon that sponsored his involvement in the circuit. What he lacked in brains he made up for in cash, securing Balthazar's place in the compound and enough medical treatment so he wouldn't end up a permanent cripple. The cogs that worked the machine, in essence. In order to escape the prisons that all angels were brought to, you had to have a demon sponsor that was willing to back you for the circuit. This was only feasible post war. Angels didn't die prior to the apocalypse. Every inhabitant of the compound and nearby prisons had been stripped of their grace. Pain that they had never before experienced became too real. In order to advance in the circuit, two angels are put into a ring surrounded by burning holy oil. The fights, while lacking guidelines, had one rule.

Only one would leave the ring.

Crowley was the oaf in charge of affairs inside the circuit. He was the final word- who could invest, who could fight. Oddly enough, he hadn't invested any of his own funds into the effort. Rumor had it that the circuit began after Lucifer had suggested a match out of boredom. After winning every subsequent match, he left the idea to Crowley in order to sit amongst the spectators. It was a horrible idea, but Balthazar preferred it to endless hours of torture, rotting the nights away in a dank cell. At first it had been rough, his opponent's death keeping him up for days. When one started in the circuit, there wasn't much time between matches, and he'd nearly lost the next while unaccustomed to the feeling of exhaustion that had consumed him. He'd learned the hard way, and had adapted as well as could be considering the circumstances. Many angels when they lost their grace went mad shortly after. If they managed to keep their composure, there was a plethora of sicknesses and side effects. Stripping grace from an angel was about as humane and proper as dismembering a horse. This didn't stop the demons from doing it, using a select group of humans to round up the angels for them. Amongst those humans were Sam and Dean Winchester. The only reason Balthazar could rationalize that they were still alive was because of Sam's potential usefulness to Lucifer. Otherwise, they were belted in to bring back angels and tend to the prisons, their hunting skills honed sharp.

It wasn't such a terrible fate for them, many an angel had said.

At this point in time, Balthazar was coldly detached from the world around him. This was not how he'd anticipated the end of the apocalypse. The reality of the matter was harsh. Both of the destined brothers had refused Michael and Lucifer, convinced that there was another way out. Instead, the seals were broken at an awe-inspiring speed, leading into a messy war that threw all three of the open realms into chaos. The only place safe from this mess was Purgatory, and even the state of that was questionable.

"-right? Balthazar!" came the petulant cry of his container.

"Yes, yes," he replied absently. Sam could no longer be seen, the noise drowned out as they neared the edge of the compound reserved for angels in the circuit.

"Then rest up. Your training begins at six," Amletus decreed, head held high. Balthazar could barely contain the smirk that threatened to break his composure. He didn't trust himself to reply, nodding to his handler and entering the gate.

. . .

_Knock. Knock-knock._

The sound continued for a couple minutes before either brother bothered to acknowledge it. Sleep was a treasure when you lived and breathed according to a demon's schedule. Sam groaned, a hand groggily coming up to bat the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes. Whatever wanted them awake at this hour couldn't be to their benefit. He didn't rise immediately, straining to hear anything else that might tip him off to who was behind the door. A quick glance to the bed next to him confirmed that Dean was also awake, clutching the .45 they had acquired on a raid and staring at the door as if it might spontaneously combust. In the past he would have rolled his eyes at the sight and made a comment on how paranoid his older brother was.

A clock on the bedside table glowed '4:30' benignly. He made an effort to move past it to the door as quietly as possible. Large hands rested against the discolored door. Dean was in a sitting position now, though hadn't abandoned the gun. The line of tension in his younger brother's back receded slightly, pulling away from the peephole with a sigh. Sam reached for the door and held it open, yellowed neon light spilling into the room from the hall as he did so.

"Rise and shine boys, boss has a job for you," the newcomer said. He was five foot four of Italian, a demon known by the name Paul. His real name was Paulinus, however everyone refused to call him that. It had made Dean bend over the table they were working at last week in uncontrollable laughter when he'd been told the meaning of the name by Sam. It translated from Latin to 'small'.

"Aw come on Paul, two more fucking hours. You know we don't do shit before six unless it's an emergency," Dean said, placing the .45 on his bedside table for the time being. As much as he'd love to put a bullet through the demon's brain, it wouldn't do them any good.

The door shut with a soft click behind him. Sam took a moment to run a hand through his disheveled hair, wishing desperately that they hadn't procrastinated on getting more coffee. This was going to be a long day if Paul was in that much of a hurry.

"Not that boss. Crowley got some intel for ya. There's one off the coast of Oregon, shacked up in some abandoned section of Portland from what I gather. You'll have to leave immediately if there's a chance of getting 'em," Paul said while picking something from underneath his fingernail. The raven haired demon didn't bother to look up until he heard a disbelieving snort from Dean.

"You're joking, right."

"Paul, that's over sixteen hours away. We'll never make it before the trail goes cold. If they're holed up in a city, they won't be staying long," Sam explained, walking out from behind Paul. He crossed the room to the small refrigerator next to the sink. A twelve pack of beer with some bottles missing, ketchup, and a bottle of aloe vera were the only items on the shelves. With little option, he plucked a beer out from the case and shut the door.

"Guess you better drive fast then," Paul retorted with a humorless chuckle. It certainly didn't put him out any to give the brothers this news. He was only a coordinator, giving out jobs to hunters and arranging cells for receiving. It wouldn't be his ass on the line if they missed the target. Dean opened his mouth to say something regarding pucker faced greasy demons at the same time that Paulinus vanished from the room. The jab ended up in a harsh exhale.

"Damnit!"

"At least he knocked this time," Sam murmured, turning back to the fridge to grab a second beer. The brown bottle was held up for a brief moment before tossing to Dean, who caught it with a little more energy than required. A weathered glance was given Dean, using the bottle opener magnet from the refrigerator door, tossing it onto the bed next to his brother when he was done.

"They know we can't just teleport everywhere," Sam stated, taking a long drag off of the beer in his hands.

"Crowley can suck it. They can always send another group. Hell, anyone that's closer. Why are we so special?" He bit off, swiping the bottle opener from the rumpled sheets. Dean was still used to sleeping, for the most part, atop of the sheets, boots and all. The beer in his hands hissed faintly, the bottle cap clattering to the wooden floor. The older of the two Winchester brothers made no effort to pick up the fallen cap, but rather draining a good portion of the ale in one bout. Emerald hues regarded the fridge in contemplation. It may just be to their benefit to take all the rest of the alcohol with them. It was, after all, going to be at least a two day journey.

Sam shook his head, eyes returning to the door as if expecting Paulinus to show back up at any time.

"We'd better get it over with."

. . .

Mechanical purring bounced off the trees as the Impala raced up I-5. A wrinkled map was strewn across Sam's lap as he traced their progress through the state. His brow furrowed, the right index finger on five and the left index on their destination. It wasn't as simple as the days when their father had just given them coordinates.

_Tap, tap-tap-tap. _Dean's fingers drummed away on the steering wheel, expression absent. This sort of moment stirred Sam, a feeling that he couldn't quite articulate. It was worrisome. He'd be the last person on Earth to say it, at this point, because it would end up in the same circular conversation. Instead of letting it get to him, his attention returned to the map.

"We'll be turning off at highway thirty, about two miles up," he warned. The map crunched underneath his hands as he attempted to fold it back to a similar shape it was in before, putting it in the glove compartment. Dean nodded to indicate he heard, which smoothly turned into head banging to the chorus of ZZ Top's 'Give it up'.

As the track ended and faded into a commercial break, Dean looked up to see the sign for their turnoff. He switched lanes rapidly, the journey taking less time than he remembered in the past. This is what it had come to. Their drab treks up to god-knows-where had become the least depressing thing him and Sam had done in the last three months. Pa-thetic.

It wasn't long before they were pulling onto a gravel road, some twelve miles off of the interstate. Dean considered leaving the Impala farther away. The blast radius of this could get a little messy. He gave a mental shrug. Whatever; he just wouldn't put his baby right next to the warehouse. Next to him, Sam was already getting out to do a weapons check. The door clicked behind him as he joined his brother, eyes lingering on the building some two hundred yards in front of them. It was eerily quiet this far out. The sound of metal on metal brought him back. Sam handed him an archangel's blade. Crowley had been adamant that they not kill any of their catches. This served as a precaution- and so far had only been needed once. He took it without thought, stuffing it into the belt over his jeans. Weapons gathered, Dean shut the trunk lid.

It was filled with mildew. The thought went through Sam's head without any chance of stopping. The warehouse had fallen into disrepair long before the apocalypse had even started. There were loose eaves hanging from the blackened ceiling, light peeking through to illuminate clouds of dust. They crept along silently, Dean taking the lead. He made a motion for Sam to stop with one hand, the tool for binding in his right. Vibrant green eyes made contact with his brother's for a breath before turning the corner.

The demon's tome fell with a clatter, echoing off the walls of the abandoned warehouse.

"_Cas."_


End file.
